daisy chains

ooh la la (9)

there's a melancholy 80s tune that rings in my head whenever i try to fall asleep.

oh. oh, it's been so long since i last thought of things in reflection. it's been so long since that modeling gig that had me gagging into my kitchen sink for days. been so long since mr.johnson's, a part to play in a stand up, a broken teenage, fleeting girlfriend who kisses white boys in front of the camera. that's what i was told to do so i did it. ages since the diner, since the odd number of people who'd walk in and point. until finally i was told not to work anymore. until finally, i could rest upon a plush pillow at the Ritz in Paris.

not quite. but in this city, she lives with me. Paris. a half-white girl who's daddy's something big. something major big that she didn't care i couldn't pay the bills. she was okay, as long as i kissed her right, told her she was pretty.

she was. so pretty. that night i met her under cascading lights and the glittering hum of champagne that later burned my tongue when she kissed me, when the cameras stopped flashing.

but. she kissed me.

and she tasted like champagne and chocolate and expensive Channel lipstick and that distinctive taste of a rich white girl who's so fucking done with her parents that she kisses girls like me to feel something else for a change.

sometimes i visit ma on the weekends. she can no longer talk smack about my job. she just looks at me and then at her hands. i wanna tell her she wasnt the one to create me. that'd i'd gone on and picked up the pieces and made me myself.

and when i get back to our apartment (which is large in every possible way. a penthouse with fur for rugs and a pink shining sofa) sometimes P is curled up sobbing cause her life's just shit. cause she can't really be happy while her daddy's all they talk about. cause he doesn't care about her, not really.

"did your daddy love you?"

her mascara is acid rain, and it tastes like nothing when i kiss her salty lips. "no, baby. i don't know em. not really."

her bony fingers clench the back of my tshirt, and i play with her silky blonde hair, pull it back from her face as she clings to me like a child clings to their parent. "i'm sorry."

i think, when she cries, that's the only time i love her. i do, love her. in some ways. in the ways in which she brings me coffee after i havent slept all night. in the mornings, when her naked legs play with mine and her fingers dip inside of me and it tastes like chocolate covered strawberries. and it feels like her fingers between my legs, between my lips, my tongue tasting of peanut butter and jelly. her mouth is black coffee, no sugar, no cream. my fingers braid with her hair, intertwined perpetually, and i kiss her and taste her, and her legs incase me, bracket around me so it's just me and her.

"daisy," she says to me. "you've got the name of a star. you'll die young and beautiful. you'll become the modern day Grace Kelly. everybody will love you."

it sounds like the eulogy she's practiced to say at my funeral. it sounds like something i will have to hear everyday i am with her. hear it when she greets me in the morning, hear it when she moans my name before bed.

it's me and Paris cause she's where i wanna go.